I'm Me

This was just venting. Writing is my way of venting. I felt much better after writing this. And every word of it is true.

I’m used to it by now. How couldn’t I be? The looks, the sneers, whispers you’ve thought I couldn’t hear. Well, I could.

Of course I know I’m different. I’ve lived with myself my whole life—shocker, isn’t it? I would have to have much less intelligence than I possess to not realize how estranged from others I really am.

You pass snide remarks about my clothes. I apologize that I haven’t worn the “in” clothing that you always do, which tends to cut off your circulation. But if it’s popular, and it’s pretty, you decide it’s worth the discomfort. I never thought so.

My mind—it must run on a different station than everyone else’s. Maybe I’m like Bella. I’m on FM while everyone else is on AM. Or maybe I’m just not tuned into the radio at all.

I don’t feel the need to speak the way you do, laugh the way you do, flirt the way you do. I see a guy, and I may note if he looks cute—nothing more. I feel no urge to run up, giggling and flashing to him, and start picking on him in a way that somehow is supposed to indicate that I like him.

Sure, I’m more intelligent than most, perhaps all of you. I can’t help it. I don’t like it. That doesn’t change anything. But the intelligence isn’t really what matters. Yes I thought so, for a while. But there are others who are intelligent, and they get along just fine…no, that’s not it.

It’s me. I see the world differently than you do. And I like the way I see it. I’m not about to change my views because of some of humanity’s strange notions.

Why do you cover yourself in those foul-smelling chemicals and pastes, that make you look more like a piece of art than a human being? I simply don’t see the appeal. You look down on me for this. I really couldn’t care. Must I make my curly brown hair curlier? My bright brown eyes more vivid? My long, dark lashes more emphasized? I don’t see why. I look fine the way I am.

I talk funny. That’s what you always tell me. I talk like an old person. Not really. Just because I choose to use larger words, am I incomprehensible? Doubtful. You just want something else to tease me with. You’ve got it.

No, I’m not a teacher’s pet merely because I answer the questions you seem too busy to care about, or because I speak to them after class occasionally. So what if I’m a writer? It’s really none of your business.

You know what? I used to care. I used to cry. I cry not only when I’m sad, but when I’m angry, did you know that? Of course you didn’t, you never cared enough to find out. But I don’t cry anymore. If my eyes are over-bright, it’s because I’ve just gotten an idea. One that you’ll never have. Or maybe it’s just because I’m comfortable with myself—which is more than you can say.